


Feels More Like a Memory

by aidennestorm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Blood Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 18:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11191302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: Hamilton is a Starfleet officer, competent and loyal. Washington is a captain keeping devastating secrets. In the wake of a taxing mission, Hamilton learns his captain is not entirely what he seems.The struggle that follows is Washington's greatest fantasy and Hamilton's worst nightmare.





	Feels More Like a Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/gifts).



From his first day under George Washington's command, Hamilton senses his captain is... different.  

It's nothing he can pinpoint. Nothing he can describe with coherent words, anyway. He's served on a number of starships and freighters, a number of postings with beings of various races, working alongside Federation citizens and non-Federation citizens alike. He prides himself, truly, on being able to efficiently and accurately do his goddamn job without biases like xenophobia impeding ship's operations; it was the reason Washington sought him out and promoted him to chief communications officer in the first place. 

So he doesn't ask invasive questions, actively strives not to make assumptions about anyone based on "human" versus "non human" characteristics (because Hamilton may be brash and arrogant and temperamental sometimes—and he knows it—but he likes to think he's not a  _total_  asshole)... but there is something about Washington that is indescribable. Something about the glint in his eyes, a deep brown flecked with an ever-changing color that has no name in any language Hamilton knows. There's a presence he has—eminently controlled, but quietly intense. It wouldn't be so unusual, except the air  _shifts_ when Washington enters a room, causing the hairs on the back of Hamilton's neck to stand on end. It’s the hot, sharp jolt that lances through him when Washington lays a hand (that looks quite human) on his shoulder. 

It could be attraction. He's not… dismissing the possibility, as laughable and implausible as it might be, that he could be attracted to his captain—it’s not their differences in status, nor in age, that gives him pause. He doesn’t know Washington’s type, has never asked, and in light of his single-minded dedication to his ambitions, Hamilton honestly doesn’t even know his  _own_ type. He prefers to  _do_  rather than theorize, and with never having  _done_  anything other than brief, recurring stints of serial monogamy with lovely but incompatible human women?

Well. There's a big question mark if ever there was one. 

It doesn't matter, though. Human or not (and ultimately it's none of his business), potential attraction or not, Washington is still the most accomplished leader Hamilton has ever known. Washington is the captain he can rely on for a steady hand and an honest word, the captain who trusts Hamilton enough to lower his self-imposed barriers of solitude and express emotions from jubilance to despondency, the captain who has earned his loyalty again and again and again... the captain he would gladly die for with a smile on his face. Washington is the unquestioning, deserving recipient of Hamilton's devotion—

Until he isn't. 

"This is ridiculous, sir!" Hamilton exclaims. It's another one of their disagreements: Washington too stoic to give in, Hamilton too stubborn to back down. Washington stands stiffly in front of the viewing window, nothing beyond but open space and the reflection of the planet below. The away teams are down on the surface, already celebrating a critical treaty signing (and taking advantage of the generously offered shore leave) without the two most influential officers that orchestrated the treaty itself. "You have to be there."

"I am not  _required_  for anything." Washington stares through the glass, not turning around. From anyone else, his words would sound petulant—but in Washington's voice it's forbidding, a clear line in the proverbial sand. 

As always, Hamilton habitually challenges any boundary he encounters.

"You're the captain," he scoffs, but underneath the insolence is no small confusion. Why? Why resistance, when they toiled so hard to find a workable solution? When they had to practically beg, steal, borrow, or barter whatever leverage they could to gain the planet's favor, all at the whim of some admiral that obviously missed the cadet level Academy courses about first contact diplomacy? And since when were their roles reversed, with _Hamilton_ lecturing _Washington_ about social obligations? "We agreed to this," he reminds Washington, whose shoulders inexplicably tense. "It's only a simple courtesy—"

" _Courtesy?_ " The word cuts through the air, sharp and jagged. Washington turns on his heel, hands still clasped behind his back, and his stormy expression is one that Hamilton has never seen before. It's not simply the furrowed brow or his mouth pressed into a grim line; it's his eyes, piercing and displeased and almost... malevolent?

Hamilton takes a cautious step back. 

There's no pretense of calm when Washington thunders, "Did you know about their  _courtesy?_ " It's Washington livid, and god it is  _terrifying_ , Hamilton's chest suddenly tight from his heart thumping wildly and his breaths coming short. With every inch he retreats, Washington gains ground by stalking forward, a dance in which Hamilton can't anticipate the moves and grows only more lost and bewildered. "Did you know what they  _asked_  of me?"

He shakes his head vehemently, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. "No, sir."

He's too focused on Washington's approach to track his own footfalls; he startles when his back hits the cool metal bulkhead. Distressed agitation floods him and he tries to suppress his strung nerves, the ominous trapped feeling settling over him like a shroud—this is Washington, his captain, and Washington would _never_ hurt him—

"They asked for _you_."

Hamilton is stunned speechless for the span of several heartbeats, managing to stammer only: "I... I'm sorry, what?"

Washington halts, then. Not touching, but Hamilton has never been more aware of Washington's wide, strong shoulders, invasive and demanding space, than he has in this uneasy moment.

"They wanted you." His voice is no longer booming but instead a low, vehement gravel. It doesn't ease Hamilton's dread. "They thought you would make a pretty consort for their minister."

Despite his precarious position, heat abruptly floods his cheeks, embarrassment and indignation warring for dominance. "What did you tell them?"

Washington's eyes flash. "I told them it was out of the question."

Hamilton sighs, though it's more an exhale of relief. "Thank you, sir—"

" _Hamilton_. It's out of the question because you are  _mine_ _._ "

He stares at Washington disbelievingly—his captain is unblinking, unsmiling, fierce and intent. A wave of sick nausea crashes over him, but Hamilton holds himself tall and retorts, as firm as he dares, "I'm not yours."

The darkness in Washington's irises deepen to a pitch black that shouldn't be biologically possible for a human, and Hamilton swallows. "I'm not... yours in _that_ way, sir. But in every other way..."

The words taste like bile; he doesn't know if they'll ease or exacerbate Washington's peculiar and dangerous mood, the way  _out_  obscured as if through a dense asteroid field. Washington's response is silent; he reaches toward Hamilton with a broad hand, resting it on his cheek, thumb sliding over the corner of his mouth. Hamilton's body threatens to tremble as he looks up into Washington's heavy gaze, but he restrains himself. No matter the inexplicable and confusing turn the meeting has taken, he refuses to show fear, refuses to show how terrified he truly is of this stranger wearing Washington's face—

And Washington abruptly slides his hand back, curling it into a fist in Hamilton's hair, jerking his head back while Hamilton curses at the sudden sting. "Mine in every way," Washington growls, but there's layers of sound on top of sound that vibrate in Hamilton's ears, discordant and grating. His eyes squeeze shut under the pressure of the unbearable noise, so he feels rather than sees the fluctuation around them, crackling like the atmosphere before a lightning storm, weighty and thick like oppressive thunderclouds. Somewhere in the midst of the ringing he hears fabric tearing, and his stomach lurches until he realizes that he doesn't feel air on any newly bared skin—and god he's afraid to witness what might be happening but he has to  _know_ ; he's always faced every mystery without hesitation—

He wrenches his eyes open, and immediately wishes he could faint. 

He doesn't. 

Instead, he gapes at his captain, Washington's uniform shirt now hanging on him in tatters, his built, sturdy chest and stomach and arms exposed—with six long, tapered, iridescent appendages several shades darker than his skin protruding from his back, three on each side, alert and lightly swaying in rhythm and tilted menacingly in Hamilton's direction.

 _Tentacles_ , he thinks hysterically,  _how did I not see this—_

"This may come as a surprise," Washington says coolly, like he's hearing Hamilton's racing thoughts (and god, maybe he _can_ —if he has tentacles, at this point anything is possible). "But it's not something to be addressed with one's crew."

"You—you know I don't... I don't care about that, sir," he stutters; his voice borders on the edge of panic when he hastily continues, "You're still my captain."

"Yes." Washington _smiles_ , then—or, less of a smile and more a baring of teeth, and _damn it_ how did he never notice their pointed, razor thin edges? "That's not my concern. You see, my boy..." he trails off, scrutinizing Hamilton like he's vulnerable prey, and Hamilton tries to suppress his shudder at the appellation and at the decidedly _hungry_ way Washington is watching him. "These only have one purpose."

There's no question at all, now, what Washington wants. What he's about to do. Horror rises and lodges in his chest—and for all his years both in and out of Starfleet surviving a variety of conflicts, for all his usual instincts to fight in the face of unfavorable odds—

Hamilton is frozen. 

He is _helpless_. 

"Please," he whispers, ignoring the harsh prickling of his scalp, Washington's tight grip preventing him from escaping, struggling to form any coherent words through his paralyzing fear. "Please, sir. Please let me go."

Instead of answering, Washington takes the final step to close the distance between them, stance wide and crowding Hamilton between his thighs. The hand not fisted in Hamilton's hair falls to Hamilton's hip, deliberately possessive, while he buries his face in the crook of Hamilton's neck, inhaling deeply. Hamilton can't stop shaking; Washington doesn't comment, but the tentacles glide closer, as if cataloging his every move. "To humans, your scent is inconsequential." His lips are soft and warm under Hamilton's ear when he murmurs into his skin, "But to me... from your first day on board, you called to me. It's only a wonder I didn't have to do this sooner."

" _No_ _,_ " he sobs; it's torn from his chest as one of the tentacles curls around his waist, long enough to wrap fully around his torso, the tip of another tentacle stroking his cheek in a delicate mockery of a caress. The appendage is hot, firm, lightly slick; his stomach lurches violently as he begs, "I _promise_ I won't fuck anyone else, please don't—"

"Why would I bargain for what's already mine?" Washington demands. Before Hamilton can protest further, Washington claims his mouth in a bruising, teeth-filled kiss. 

His lip splits and he tastes blood, bitter and metallic. Washington plunders his mouth while Hamilton can only clutch desperately at the bulkhead, too far from the door or an object to help aid in a retreat. While he remains still and trembling under the assault, two of the other tentacles tug on his uniform, his shirt hitched up and his pants and undergarments pooled around his ankles. The air is cool on his skin, a sharp counterpoint to the overwhelming heat of Washington's body—but it leaves him horrifyingly vulnerable and exposed. 

When Washington pulls back to admire his handiwork with prideful eyes, tongue licking his own lips to taste Hamilton's blood, Hamilton wants to sag to the floor and curl away from this. He wants to scream and rage and destroy everything in sight because he's never—

And Washington is about to—

_I can't, I can't, I can't..._

"You will," Washington commands, and Hamilton realizes with another roil of nausea that he never spoke aloud. 

A strong hand grabs his jaw, squeezes until his mouth unwillingly falls open and the tentacle that was touching his cheek slithers inside, despite Hamilton desperately trying to wrench his head away. Washington immediately slides it into the back of his throat—not thrusting, but holding it heavy on Hamilton's tongue. It tastes unpleasantly musky and bitter, the slickness coating it gagging him. Washington breathes a low groan, wanting and greedy, tentacle stretching and thickening in Hamilton's mouth. Hamilton's frantic thoughts grow only more wild when another tentacle, the one previously around his waist, creeps between his thighs, tip tracing small circles around his hole. Knowing that Washington will hear him doesn't stop his silent plea— _Someone fucking help me!_

He squirms in place, attempting to avoid the questing limb, until yet another tentacle curls around his back and binds his wrists together; he forcefully tries to yank his hands free but the grip is too strong, and only earns him a sudden plunge of Washington's tentacle further down his throat. It chokes him and he abruptly jerks away, but his head collides with the bulkhead, causing him to see stars and lose some of his footing, unintentionally pressing onto the tentacle brushing his ass. 

"So eager," Washington growls, and with a rippling of his limb shoves it inside, a rough thrust that makes him cry out, sharp and wounded. He's known hurt but never like _this_ , intimate and set ablaze, sensitive skin tattered and carelessly abused—and, an equal hurt, the hitch in his breathing, the tears springing to his eyes not just from the intrusion but from this unexpected, unimagined horror at his captain's hands, where his heart twists in a disbelieving ache.

Washington nestles back into his throat, biting into his neck and breaking the skin. He flinches in another fruitless attempt to escape; it's a different kind of pain, quick and stinging, when his flesh tears. He feels the rough slick of a tongue laving the wound and actively suppresses the impulse to gag, the shocked dizziness making the edges of his vision fuzz, and all of this is still nothing compared to the continuing agony of the tentacle curling in his ass. After it deliberately twitches on a particular spot inside him he sobs harshly, body jerking, his limp cock hardening. 

The noise that rumbles from Washington's chest sounds more like a purr than a hum, but it's unmistakably satisfied. "You enjoy this."

 _No,_  he struggles to protest around the length in his mouth, but it only earns him another inch deeper, barely enough to allow him to breathe. He fights the pounding in his head and blinks back more tears, instead trying to relax his jaw—but he never closes his eyes. 

He hasn't once. 

If Washington is going to rape him, he's going to have to stare Hamilton in the face while he’s doing it.

And he _does_ —unreservedly, unashamedly, aroused and breathing heavily, lips stained red and blood dripping off his chin when he finally pulls off Hamilton's broken skin with a wet pop. He never looks away when he rubs his tentacle on the same bundle of nerves over and over, and Hamilton writhes as unwelcome spikes of pleasure tear through his body. He studies Hamilton, even more enraptured, when a sudden rough jab forces him into a blinding, jagged orgasm, coming untouched over his own bare stomach and the remnants of Washington's uniform. 

Stronger than the shame washing over him, Hamilton wants it to be over. He prays to every deity that has already abandoned him that it's _over_. That Washington has used him and has tired of him and will let him _go_. 

But the thrusts quicken as Washington's breath shortens, as the space around them seems to charge with electricity. Washington's hands are still on his waist and in his hair, clutching with bruising force, and Hamilton moans in pain with every merciless stroke. Washington crushes Hamilton tight to his chest as his tentacle never stops moving inside his ass, Hamilton tumbling from his unwanted peak into further torture. He can't halt the stunned, ragged gasp, and gets more of the appendage stuffed into his mouth, already stretched too wide around the intrusive girth. 

"The minister was right," Washington muses, voice gravelly with continued arousal, as another limb curls around Hamilton's cock; Hamilton's eyes roll back in his head at the influx of _too much_ , no breath left to make a substantial protest other than a fractured sound. "You make a very pretty plaything."

While the thick slide of Washington's tentacle winds around his cock in a firm grip, the tip nudges his balls in a steady glide on his overheated skin. Hamilton struggles to stay alert in the onslaught of sensation threatening to drown him, trying to focus on what he _can_ see: the two remaining tentacles rapidly approaching him, Washington's cutting smile as one of them wraps around his throat, becoming additionally slick through the blood trickling down his neck and the other—

His eyes snap open when he feels the tip of the last tentacle wedging its way inside his ass to join the one already filling him, attempting to stretch him impossibly wide, the pain magnifying by unerring degrees. He frantically tugs his bound hands to no effect; his fingers are past tingling and into dull numbness, no way to even attempt to maneuver himself free. Fighting is ineffectual, useless, and by the ragged panting of Washington's breaths it only serves to inflame his captain more—but it's instinctual to thrash, even as it causes the limb around his throat to seize tighter.

Washington's stare is entitled, utterly pleased; he touches his lips possessively to Hamilton's forehead, to his cheeks engorged by the tentacle in his mouth, to the abused skin on his neck. Hamilton labors for air; spots float across his eyes and pressure builds in his chest, tight and unbearable, fresh tears sliding down his cheeks. With another groan and shudder Washington moves without warning, tentacle entering him fully with a careless thrust. 

Hamilton screams wildly as it rips through his flesh, blood and tentacle slick trailing between his thighs. Every shift of the intrusion inside him sends a new shard of hot sick pain through him, and when they unwind fully inside him, curling and twisting and pressing against the inside of his stomach, he feels his eyes nearly flutter shut again in the overload of agony. 

Washington's hand leaves his hip, brushing it across Hamilton's distended abdomen, and Hamilton whimpers. "Look at you." Washington's voice is reverent, filled with awe. "More perfect than I ever imagined."

He presses _hard_ on Hamilton's stomach; Hamilton screams even more desperately, the new slackness of his throat causing the tentacle in his mouth to slide further, fully choking him, his only audible noise a wet gurgle. Washington's head falls forward to rest on Hamilton's—after every violation this is too intimate, brutal in its gentleness, as Washington's eyes close, bliss overtaking his face as he breathes a ragged, " _Alexander._ " Washington's tentacles seize violently around him, within him, as he releases thick and hot, slicking his neck and hands and cock, sliding down his throat and gagging him, filling him and swelling his stomach further, the vice around his cock causing Hamilton to come a second horrifying time with a tight arch of his body.

Barely comprehensible through Hamilton's sluggish, foggy mind, Washington murmurs: "Enjoy it while you can, my boy, for you won't remember how good it feels to give in."

Hamilton struggles against the darkness pounding at the corners of his vision. The cruel shine in Washington's eyes is unmistakable, and Hamilton knows with renewed terror exactly what Washington is about to do, because after raping his body, to rape his mind, perhaps not for the first time...

_No! No, please!_

Washington slides his hand up from Hamilton's stomach and across his chest in a calculating caress, stopping only to curl his broad, warm hand around Hamilton's cheek. "Sleep now," Washington soothes him, thumb stroking his cheekbone in a steady rhythm. Washington's eyes—pupil and iris and whites alike—are fully black, now, fathomless and deep like the farthest reaches of space. Hamilton's ears ring as he falls unconscious, twitching in one final protest before going limp—

Then his eyes open with a strangled cry ripped from his throat, his body tangled in sheets and gasping for air. 

"Hamilton," Washington breathes; Hamilton searches the room in bewilderment before his startled glance pauses at the side of his bed, where Washington reclines in a chair. His thighs are casually spread, datapad dangling in his hand, but he sits upright and sets the device aside, focusing on Hamilton intently when he asks, "How are you feeling?"

Truthfully, he doesn't know. He feels... _off_ , somehow. A low unsettled hum nestled under his skin, stomach coiling, every nerve prickling like a live wire. He stares at Washington mutely, for once his words deserting him. 

"You've been ill," Washington informs him with concern furrowing his brow, an answer to an unspoken question. "The remainder of the crew is planetside. Before we could beam down to join them you collapsed in my office. I kept you aboard ship so you could recuperate."

"Oh." There's a blank, empty stretch in his mind—the last moment he remembers is entering Washington's office, requesting to speak with him about... something. It's not important enough to recall, obviously, so he doesn't dwell on it. Washington will fill him in later. "I am queasy," he admits, and inexplicably, his tension eases slightly. 

Washington's gaze is so earnest, sincere and caring and firm, that it nearly makes Hamilton squirm with a complicated, inexpressible rush of warmth. "You run yourself too hard, Alexander. If you refuse to keep yourself safe, I will."

And Hamilton… believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR appreciation to dreamlittleyo, who did _not_ run away screaming when I sent a message that read only WASHINGTON AS A TENTACLE MONSTER (in all caps, natch), but was instead a _phenomenal_ cheerleader, beta, and fellow tentacle noncon enthusiast. As always, thank you.
> 
> You can catch me at [aidennestorm](https://aidennestorm.tumblr.com), or at [walkerstormfanworks](https://walkerstormfanworks.tumblr.com) where I post projects with my excellent collaborator [walkerbaby.](https://walkerbaby.tumblr.com)


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